LET ME IN
by RachyBaby09
Summary: Cathy's wandering spirit beckons Heathcliff from outside his window. A retelling of the haunting & destructive love shared between two broken souls. Novel/2009 film based. Please R&R!
1. The Ghost of Catherine Earnshaw

_(a/n: A maddened Heathcliff hears Cathy's ghostly voice at his window. There really needs to be more Wuthering Heights fanfics on here! Please drop a quick review! __Wow—finally a non-Phantom phic from me! Then, again, Mr. Heathcliff and Erik do share many perks! Though, Cathy is no Little Lotte…_

___I'm actually going to strive to make this non-reader/watcher friendly! Hopefully I can snag some phans…lol. _

_____By the way, I pictured the amazing and yummy Tom Hardy when writing this._)

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_Chapter I: The Ghost of Catherine Earnshaw_

_"Let me in."_

The haunted voice whispered through the shuddering sill, victim to winter's merciless sting. It reverberated within the night's somber abyss, breathing its cries along the outskirts of the moor. Akin to the beat of a racing heart, the windowsill thumped and pounded against the aged wood.

Sounding far more ghost than human, the tragic wail was distinctly feminine, as it seemed to weep an eternity of heartache. It cried out for the sins of humanity. It wept for the star-crossed lovers and the damned. Indeed; it was morbid, cryptic in both shape and form. The lost spirit seemed to inherit far more than its share of original sin. Its tone was distant, lonely and faded, as it danced about in the wind's piercing breath. Such a thing was a pitiful thing to behold.

Winter had stripped the trees of their leafy attire; a thick breeze from the moor hissed through the nude branches, and they all quivered.

The sky was black, oily and slick as ink; swollen clouds blanketed out to the horizon, sealing the heavens from earth. All goodness and beauty seemed to have been spirited away by an ominous and diabolical force. The landscape vastly darkened.

_"Let me in,"_ the voice painfully wept, begging for release.

A twisted gasp erupted from Heathcliff's chest. He sprang from beneath his sheets, waking from the throes of another nightmare. There was no rest for Heathcliff; all he had were nightmares.

His hunched silhouette cowered on the bed, shivering half from fear, half from the brutal cold. Perspiration wallowed within the morbid and abused trenches of his back.

Trembling hands cupped the aged leather of his lips. He echoed the ghost's cry. "Cathy! You have come! Oh, Cathy, my poor love…" A heavy film of sweat seethed from the seam of his forehead. Such as holy water, long drops cascaded down his hallow cheeks, mingling with his tears. But they were far from holy water, he knew. His curse could not be purified. Not this night.

Like some wounded beast, Heathcliff groaned and moaned through a series of strangled and choked sobs, madly clawing at his shirt. Handsome eyes—which had once glowed in their youth—spat the fire of Hell. They were windows to his orphaned soul, reflecting a lifetime of suffering. Heathcliff stared into the barren expanse of black. He saw nothing; only despair.

Heathcliff peered down beneath his thick hood of eyelashes; he was a bit startled to find his palms were bleeding and severely gashed. In his frustration and despair, Heathcliff's nails had dug themselves into the flesh—vanishing almost completely. But he had felt nothing. Nothing. With age, Heathcliff had grown increasingly numb and indifferent to the world around him.

His flesh was an empty shell; nearly eighteen years ago, his soul had been buried in the grave. Had it truly been eighteen years? He could not say. In Hell, time ceased to exist. The world had become a strange and eternal limbo. There was only waiting. Would there ever be an end to the agony? Would he ever be granted his rest?

Would Heathcliff ever be reunited with his other half?

Cathy Earnshaw had left him incomplete, sucking his spirit from his flesh.

Heathcliff was alive but not living. All he asked for was release. Cathy…she could give him his release. But, in life, she had never been a merciful creature. No. Fate had already spoken_…_decades ago. There was no rest for Heathcliff nor Cathy; the ghost's of their haunted past would be certain.

He wiped the perspiration from his hairline, his jaw gritted. He chewed at his bottom lip until he tasted the metallic flavor of blood.

"End it," he pleaded to the darkness.

His fingers twisted and tangled within the wretched material of his sullied shirt. Doom chuckled at his distress. He shuddered and hummed a silent curse.

His heartbeat raced against the warmth of his fingertips, thumping its dangerous melody. He despised the beat of his heart with passion; it proved he was still bestowed on earth. It reminded him of the barrier which was imprisoning him from his beloved Cathy.

_"Please__…l_et…me…in…"

Alas! It was her! She was haunting him. Heathcliff's soul sighed in divine relief.

_"Please,"_ sobbed the approaching voice.

Heathcliff, the voice's tragic mate, stumbled to the window, mesmerized and drawn to the beckoning call. The languid and deathly features of his face seemed to resurrect. His tarnished eyes sparkled, his spirit vastly rekindled. He would gladly die for her; Heathcliff would die a thousand deaths in her name.

Heathcliff inhaled an extended breath.

A white figure glowed and radiated beyond the shut window, contrasting against the endless night. It was suspended and floating. Heathcliff's arms shot out in a desperate gesture, as if he meant to embrace the ghostly spectacle.

The window's glass jingled against his hands in defiance. The evil forces of the world were keeping him prisoner. Wuthering Heights had been reduced to a cage—God's wrath being his captor. The window rattled beneath his touch. He breathed a curse through his lips.

He cried out; Heathcliff scratched and banged at the cool surface, as impatient as a fretting tot—needing to shatter the glass and break free.

"Cathy! We shall not escape each other this night!" Shaky hands managed to find the hinge. "I am here, my love—waiting!—Do come for me!"

A violent wind, sent from the gaping mouth of the moor, moaned and unhooked the window from its sill.

But the window never did flow open. A pasty arm was quicker; it broke through the glass in a mad frenzy, sharing in Heathcliff's desperation. The _dead arm of the voice _latched and curled onto his lapels, dragging him with her into the darkness.


	2. The Ghost of Ages Past

_(a/n: I received some encouraging reviews…so I've decided to continue! Please drop a review if you'd like me to make this into a chapter fic. Also, ANY and ALL comments/feedback are taken straight to heart & are very inspirational to me. If I go on, I'm planning on basing this story off a combination of the novel/2009 adaptation. Hope you enjoy!_

_Please keep in mind that the ordering of events follow the 2009 film and not the novel! This chapter features young Catherine—Cathy & Edgar's daughter—and an older, embittered Heathcliff.)_

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Wuthering; adjective—Yorkshire word; prone to turbulent or stormy weather.

_Chapter II: The Ghost of Ages Past_

_The anniversary of Catherine Earnshaw's death…_

"A little further, Nelly—only a little further!"

Young Catherine—a wide-eyed, spirited and good-natured girl of eighteen—bundled up her plethora of sweeping skirts with a beaming smile. She lifted them from her feet as she continued the adventurous pursuit, never turning to the voice which soberly beckoned her name.

"Do come, Nelly! How lovely it is up here!"

All five of her senses were more than a little overwhelmed. What a revelation! For the first time she had experienced the world outside the gates of Thrushcross Grange without her father at her side. Over the years, the pleasant home had mutated into a sort of cage. It had cruelly enslaved her spirit and youth, though did nothing to stifle her longing for excitement and life. While her papa cherished her dearly—bless his heart—Catherine had suffered from his adoration. Indeed, Edgar Linton—the good master of Thrushcross Grange and an upstanding gentleman of high society—had imprisoned his little Catherine, locking her away and sheltering her from the world's malice. Apart from cousin Linton's brief and teasing appearance in her life, she was secluded and very much alone, never having a friend or playfellow of any sort. It proved unfortunate, for both daughter and father, that her captivity had only served to fuel her inner fire.

And yet Catherine—who embraced a heart which beat only goodness—never came to despise or think ill of her papa. She merely returned his kindness and love tenfold, caring for him as his health had slowly deteriorated over the lonely years.

But today was far from the ordinary. Today marked young Catherine Earnshaw's eighteenth birthday; Edgar had given her the gift of independent freedom. She could not travel far, of course—only to the moors, vowing to return within the hour. Undoubtedly, the moors were a strange and dangerous place to relieve her curiosity. But Catherine had inherited her mother's fiery spirit and installable hunger for adventure; if she ever was to be tamed, certainly an afternoon amongst the moors would satisfy his daughter's unruly appetite. Really—what tragedy could possibly befall young Catherine over the course of one afternoon?

"We must go back—we really must go back!" Nelly frowned and held down her bonnet, climbing the massive boulders and rocks, vainly struggling to keep up with the restless girl. Twenty years ago, Nelly Dean had more or less managed Cathy Earnshaw. But, now, she found that her old age was catching up to her; it was poor competition against the child's youthful determination. Unlike Catherine, her mother had always been free.

"Catherine! Please, Miss! The master shall be most vexed!" The wind gave a solemn and mournful howl, sweeping away the audacity of her voice. Nelly despaired as Catherine crawled up and out of her sight.

Finally reaching the top of the moor, Catherine exhaled a deep sigh of relief and dabbed the film of beading sweat from her brow. She gazed at the breathtaking scenery, for the first time feeling truly alive and at peace. The sun was high and proud, tucked within the paisley sky, shining in all its glory; she smiled, basking beneath its regal glow.

"I bet I could see as far as Gimmerton if I really had the mind to!"

A limitless sky was halfway hidden beneath the blanket of lush clouds. Catherine's arms raised high above her head, as if she meant to embrace the Heavens. She tossed her head back and inhaled the crisp, spring air; it pleasantly flooded her lungs and spirit with a sweet and foreign essence. "Oh! How beautiful! Look! I can touch the sky, Nelly!"

She twirled about, giggling merrily and perfectly happy; an illuminating shaft poured over her like a diva's spotlight. Catherine danced within the ring of light, ending with a curtsy. She resumed, performing for an invisible audience. But she shortly exhaled and came to a stop, beginning to feel dizzy and rather lightheaded.

Catherine shaded her eyes and scrunched her forehead; barely could she make out the ghostly figure of a woman lurking far in the distance. She was absently wandering the moors…hair lovely and long, descending to the small of her waist in a mass of chocolate ringlets…a white dress billowing about like a strange and slanted halo. Unbeknown to Catherine, she and the woman shared a striking resemblance.

"Why, Nelly! A woman is wandering the moor down yonder! Do you see her? Poor thing! She seems to be quite lost!"

Catherine's contentment fled as quickly as it had come. She cupped her thumping and heaving breast; a deep and thunderous voice had spooked her. Tilting her face backwards, she absorbed the haunting vision which loomed powerfully above.

It was a dark and menacing man whom glared at her. Still and unmoving as Death, Heathcliff was cryptic in both his spirit and form. Raven hair skimmed the strong expanse of his shoulders, blowing gently in the wind's breath. The black trench-coat clashed against the horizon, draping down and over the sides of an equally impressive creature. Catherine should have been frightened from her very skin; instead, she felt oddly drawn to his presence.

The magnificent stallion stomped his heavy hooves, pawed at the pearly stone and whined, expressing his unhappiness. Heathcliff tugged on the reins as he carefully regarded young Catherine. She was undeniably a lovely girl, and the resemblance of her mother took him by surprise. Her skin was much fairer than Cathy's, which stood as proof of her sheltered and rich upbringing, Heathcliff mournfully took note. What disturbed and angered him greatest was the girl's dauntingly familiar eyes. They sparkled like diamonds, wide, innocent and blue—the eyes of a dove—and he despised the poor creature for it.

Heathcliff's eyes, in contrast, were deep, thoughtful and unbearably frigid—a truly terrible thing to behold. They were far from innocent and seemed to have narrowed with his age and bitterness. She shivered, trembled, and shuddered, cowering beneath his damning stare. Catherine was burned by the intensity of those unwavering eyes…a rare slate of blackened emerald. They whispered tragic secrets which young Catherine held no desire to know. She felt assaulted beneath the scrutinizing glare.

"What are you doing, girl?"

Catherine squinted and shaded her gaze, fighting off the afternoon light once more.

"I…I was searching for ground snakes."

"Ah—that would be poachin'!"

Catherine trembled at the sound of the thick whisky accent. Intuition warned her to run; youth urged her to stay. After only a moment of slight hesitation, she adjusted the hem of her bubbly skirts and bravely shifted nearer to the pair of hostile beasts.

"I would have never taken any of them! I only wished to see them. Papa says there are vast quantities on the moor."

Heathcliff grumbled and looked away, eyes rolling beneath his lush fan of lashes.

"Papa is Mister Linton of Thrushcross Grange—is he not?"

Fear was replaced with childish curiosity; Catherine grinned and slanted her pretty face, planting a darling hand on either side of her hips.

"Why, yes. And who are you?"

"You don't know me?"

She shook her head, auburn curls bouncing beneath the confines of her cap. Groaning miserably, she removed the wretched thing, swiping a mane of lush chocolate curls away from her neck. It was quite nasty; her skin was irritated and they were plastered to her damp flesh. She fanned herself in an attempt to relieve her building discomfort. Catherine was far from used to such conditions.

Heathcliff stiffened his posture as she released the swarm of curls, strangely affected by the simple gesture. Then he arched forward, a sinister and playful smile stretching his lips.

"Aye…but I know you…Miss Catherine…" She shuddered when that horrific smile curved impossibly more. Winking, he continued in a light and harmless tease, "And I happen to know that today is your birthday."

Catherine smiled, lips parting in breathless wonderment.

"You might know my name, but you don't know me," mused the charming young lady.

But Heathcliff—who was immovable and steadily carved from stone—was far from charmed.

He merely leaned back, settling into the saddle, his chest deflating with an extended and painful sigh. His eyes grew heavy and languid, suddenly weighed down with emotion. He vacantly stared into the horizon, consciousness lost to some distant memory. Catherine meant to question him further but could not find her voice. Her sweet heart trembled. The rugged man had softened considerably, now rather gentle in his presence. His face fell forward with a palpable agony; he silently shook his head, speaking to either some inner demon or ghost of his past. The black hair fluttered about, hanging in front of his distinguished features—curtaining the windows to a tormented and troubled soul.

"I was an acquaintance of your mother's. I know that today is the anniversary of her death."

"Oh! Oh, I see! I suppose you saw me…and recognized my mother in me?"

"No." Heathcliff twisted to her voice with a low sneer, eyes narrowing intently on Catherine. His own voice thickened, rolling from the depths of his lungs like thunder. "There is nothing of your mother in you."

Catherine swallowed, feeling early stirrings of fear. Regardless, she pursued the intimidating stranger, finding that her curiosity equaled any wariness or apprehension. "Well…how could you recognize me, then?"

A moment of foreboding silence fell upon them. When he spoke, once more, Heathcliff's nonchalant and casual tone did an excellent job of disguising his destructive motives.

"Come accompany me to my home." Gesturing her forward with a slick hand motion and shrugging his broad shoulders, "I believe you shall find yourself already acquainted with my boy."

Catherine giggled and smoothed out the attractive folds of her dress. She betrayed herself and inched towards Heathcliff—a new eagerness empowering both her nerve and step.

"Acquainted with your boy! How could I be?"

He chuckled—an ominous, haunting sound. "Come to my house and see, child!"

She eyed the rough and calloused hand which lingered midair.

"I will come. But I think you are mistaken!"

He pulled her up and onto the back of his horse with ease—not bothering to hide an unsettling grin of satisfaction which had consumed his face. Heathcliff kicked the stallion's side and bellowed a harsh command. The monster obeyed its master, violently jerking forward, forcing Catherine to clutch onto his waist; she cried out, as her hat was swept away, blowing across the desolate moors like some hostage tumbleweed.

"No! My papa's birthday gift! Oh, please! Please, Mister? May we not stop to fetch it?" Heathcliff ignored his distressed damsel, ordering the stallion from a steady trot to a fierce gallop. The hooves beat the ground with a repetitive and ugly melody. Catherine's desperate cries were drowned and smothered.

And, at that precise moment, Nelly Dean had finally managed to reach the top of the moor. She look around and blinked away imminent tears—standing where young Catherine had been only moments ago.

Then she panicked, completely helpless and deserted, watching with a grave expression as the stallion galloped out of earshot. "Catherine, no! No! I forbid it! Catherine!"

A handsome mane and countless curls danced and flew attractively in the breeze, as Heathcliff and Catherine vanished into the provocative skyline. Nelly uttered a defeated cry and collapsed to the crutch of her knees. She collected Catherine's hat from the stone flooring, fondling and twisting delicate material between two shaking fingertips.

"Heathcliff, you poor wretch," she recited through a choked sob. "Such a terrible and unfortunate wretch!"

The sky blackened without warning—manipulated by some unseen, damning force. Thundered growled, and the clouds grew dark and swollen. Nelly secured her shawl and wildly shivered; her heart paralyzed. Tormented ghosts of the past resurrected, rising from their spiritual limbos.

The tragic realization had dawned. The new generation was doomed; it would suffer the vengeful wrath of thwarted and star crossed lovers forevermore.

Fate would no longer be denied.

_(a/n: Please drop a comment! Thanks!) _


	3. The Ghost of the Heights

_(a/n: Hi, everyone! Thanks so much for all the encouraging reviews! They were a HUGE inspiration to me! Hope this installment is okay. I'm still planning on making a couple changes to this chapter…but I didn't want to delay my update a moment longer…soo here it is. Please let me know your thoughts! Much love. _

_BTW: if you haven't seen the 2009 Wuthering Heights, feel free to check out my YouTube channel. I have the full film uploaded in HD. You can find a link in my user profile. You might want to keep in mind that this story is largely based off that version.__)_

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_Chapter III: The Ghost of the Heights_

Catherine's breath was swept away as she laid eyes upon Wuthering Heights for the first time. She felt lightheaded and beyond nauseas…as if she were descending into a lucid nightmare from which she would never awake. The rugged home—if it could even be called a home—was nothing short of impressive. Horrifyingly impressive. The building seemed to be constructed from much more than mere stone and mortar; it was an incarnation of haunting memories and terrible truths.

It looked like the bastard child of a medieval castle and a haunted house.

It was strange that the disturbing vision of Wuthering Heights helped to ease her fears, rather than worsen them.

As Catherine and her solemn captor steadily approached, the walls seemed to whisper tragic secrets of the heart. Despite its frightening and weathered appearance, she knew it had once been remarkably beautiful—perhaps, even breathtaking. But Wuthering Heights had been long time robbed of its happiness—there was no doubt in that—and it stood before her as no more than a dark, eternal prison. It was a mausoleum…a fortress of enslaved spirits…a personal Hell…a tomb and a coffin. She felt strangled and entirely breathless; an unwelcoming presence seemed to poison the air.

Catherine only prayed that Heathcliff—whomever this bitter shell of man truly was—would not sentence her to his mortal crypt.

* * *

The beast came to a jarring stop as Heathcliff tugged on the stallion's reins. He rode with a rare and elegant grace, Catherine admitted, as if he and the horse were one, fantastic being. Much like the Heights, the man embodied a haunting, disturbing beauty. And that made him all the more dangerous.

Indeed—despite his hardened exterior and savage pride, Heathcliff was quite beautiful. He was an intensely dark man, both in his spirit and form.

Heathcliff tossed the reins aside and slipped off the monstrous creature in a slick motion. The stallion shook out his raven mane, pawing the ground with a low snort, expressing his unhappiness like a quarreling tot—clearly disgruntled. Dust particles clouded the atmosphere as Heathcliff patted the animal's backside, coaxing him into submission. "Easy, now, ol' boy. Easy."

Still high upon the stallion's mighty back, Catherine stared down with a paralyzed, aching fear. She was unable to move, unable to speak, unable to draw breath. Her dark, mysterious abductor remained in perfect silence.

"Going to make yourself at home up there, are you now?"

Catherine exhaled a strained breath and forced herself to shake her head.

"Aye, come along, then." Her flesh tightened around her bones as Heathcliff tugged her off of the mighty stallion and into his arms.

He watched the emotions which crossed over Catherine's charming face by turns. Horror, wonderment, intrigue, apprehension…they were all there.

A cruel and knowing grin seemed to curl his lips. Heathcliff ushered her forward in a gesture which could almost be described as gentlemanly. "Come, come. I have _quite_ the surprise for you."

Catherine gathered her courage, smoothed down her skirt, and marched forward like an obedient solider…

* * *

The inside could only be described as empty. Empty and soulless.

Vaulted ceilings echoed every hushed whisper, amplifying the stark atmosphere. In the drawing room—the room which Heathcliff had lead her into—there were hardly any furniture, save for a pair of outdated rocking chairs. She felt impossibly cold…

A blazing hearth helped ease the chill; hungry flames wavered, their long shafts lapping at the stone floor in a hypnotic dance. A horrifying dog lay just in front of the fire, fast asleep and perfectly content. His back-legs twitched as he soundly slept; his oversized muzzle rested atop a half-eaten, mutilated bone as if it were a pillow.

Heathcliff's low, whisky voice broke the dead silence. "Now, _who_ is that?" He nudged Catherine forward, continuing with a snide snicker, "Tell me, girl: does he not look familiar?"

It was then which Catherine realized they were not alone. A severely hunched and meek figure sat in the rocking chair, his pale profile indecipherable to her eyes. The poor person was staring into the hearth, almost in a dazed trance—deathly still and soaking up the warmth. He seemed not to notice her presence. In fact, he seemed not to notice anything.

Catherine eased towards the motionless rocking chair. With each of her steps, the shiny auburn hair, sapphire gaze and chiseled features became clearer and clearer. The brilliant blue of her eyes came to life with a sparkle; she gasped in pure disbelief.

"Linton? Cousin Linton?" Catherine turned back to Heathcliff with a twirl of her pretty skirts, all ten of her fingertips pressed against her lips. "He's your son!" Absorbed in the strange epiphany, she rushed over to the man without thinking twice—wrapping Heathcliff's stiff and unflinching body with her arms. "And you…you are my uncle!"

He grunted and attempted an unconvincing smile. "If you have any attentions, you ought to give them to Linton here."

Catherine returned to her cousin. Dear, darling cousin Linton! "All this time you were so close…" Catherine's eyes widened as she studied him…his ghostly complexion…dimmed, tarnished stare…

He looked ill—deathly ill. She crouched in front of Linton; with a sudden desperation she clutched onto his pasty, pale hands. Her eyes swelled with a storm of unshed tears. "You are not well!" Her auburn mane of curls bounced about as she shook her downcast face. "And all this time you were so close—why did you never come see me?"

Heathcliff took a determined step towards the two adolescents. "Best ask your father…hmm?"

"Papa said Linton was living many miles away."

Linton stuttered a bit before he spoke, flashing Heathcliff a wary and rather terrified glance. "I-I had prayed that I might see you before I died."

Overwhelmed, more than a little excited, Catherine pressed a kiss upon each of Linton's hollow cheeks. A bit of color returned to his deathly pallor as he blushed like the devil. "Dear Linton! If I'd only known…I swear I would have been here so much sooner…"

Seemingly from nowhere, Nelly Dean appeared behind Heathcliff's menacing silhouette. She was out of breath—panting, her normally pale complexion a dangerous shade of red.

"You should not have come here!" Nelly attempted to grabbed hold of Catherine. The child leapt from the floor, an uncharacteristic anger seething from her eyes. "Why not? Because I should learn my cousin is so close?"

"Go on—make yourself at home, Nelly." Heathcliff motioned towards the empty rocking chair, throwing a nonchalant wave in its general direction. "Your old chair still sits there for you."

"What? You lived here, too?" Catherine shook her head and harnessed back piling tears—unwilling to believe that papa had woven a web of lies. "I do not believe it."

"Aye, she did, indeed. And she raised your mother here."

Catherine glared at Nelly. "Is this true?"

Nelly bowed her head, as if in prayer, unable to meet Catherine's heartbroken gaze.

"She raised me here, also…though, I cannot say if she looks at me with pride for the job she did…"

"This…this is impossible. Tomorrow I shall think it all a dream." _Or rather a nightmare…_

Heathcliff ignored the girl. His heavy boots echoed in a hollow chime as he came to stand beside Linton. Perching an elbow atop the rocking chair, forcing it into a deep and unsettling sway, "Now, son…have you nothing to show your cousin? Hmm?"

The poor boy said nothing. When Heathcliff spoke, once more, an ominous tinge of mockery empowered his words. "Why not take her outside to see the horses?"

Linton gazed into Catherine's eyes with a silent plea. His bones rattled and rolled as a sharp cough shook his frail body. "Wouldn't you rather stay here?"

Catherine peered up at Heathcliff from behind her lush hood of eyelashes. He looked happy. _Too happy_…disturbingly pleased with himself. Her heart lurched into her stomach.

"I rather like being outdoors. Don't you?"

"Aye."

The balls of Linton's knuckles whitened as he attempted to push himself up and out of the chair. _Push…push…push_…it was no use. He choked on a thick intake of air—head bowed and far more than a little shameful—unable to budge nor stir a limb. He was simply too weak. Too drained of all life.

Heathcliff sighed melodramatically and gave an off look. A young lad of about eighteen years lurked behind Nelly. Both of his hands were tucked into corduroy pockets, eyes planted firmly on the ground beneath his feet. His skin was wonderfully sun-kissed. Thick, black hair curled around the nape of his neck, nearly sweeping the expanse of his sturdy shoulders. He held a striking resemblance to Heathcliff…though, his eyes were worlds kinder.

"A pity for you, Linton." Heathcliff offered Catherine a sideways grin. "You shall have to settle for Hareton. Isn't he a rather handsome lad?"

Catherine looked him up and down with an inquisitive, bashful stare. He was handsome, indeed.

Heathcliff's voice was smooth and slick, laced with a faint hint of victory. "Go with her round the stable. Behave like a gentleman. Don't stare, mind you."

Catherine threw Linton an apologetic gaze. Uncle or no uncle—Heathcliff was a tormented, dangerous soul.

A moment later she and Hareton had disappeared from the room. Unable to move nor speak, Nelly watched the couple depart in a stunned, disbelieving silence.

Heathcliff bent forward and knelt down—all the way down to Linton's sickly height. "Now…you have a challenger for you cousin's heart."

_(a/n: I apologize if I never responded to your review. They mean the world to me. I'll try to do so for now on! Thanks again!)_


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